Sunday, November 21, 2010

To the Women of Thanksgiving, with Love

We cut and crumble, chop and knead,
Make endless lists, and cookbooks read,
Shop and haul, cash and carry,
Roll the dough, sort cranberries.
Scrub and toss and smooth and shake
All your holiday to make.

We traverse rural hill and dale
To the blood-spattered farmer, who on his scale
Does our free-range turkeys weigh.
We stand shivering there on butchering day,
And wonder why we truss and bake
All your holiday to make.

Yes, we will eat.  And we will pray.
And thankfully partake on the great day.
When all are served and sated, each one,
And we've cleaned it up, the dishes done,
A well-earned rest we'd like to take.
But no.  There's the next meal to make.


  1. Yes. I think it was seeing the blood spatters on the farmer's clothes that really caused me to write the poem. It was so graphic! Few people see anything more than the fresh turkey coming from the supermarket, all sanitized! Plus, in my generation, men do very little assisting with holiday preparations. I think it's changed some in young men of today.